


Control

by HannahLydia



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Indoctrination, Blindfolds, Comstock House, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Electrocution, F/M, Failed Rescue Mission, Gags, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Inappropriate Erections, Possession, Torture, incarceration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 03:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15964067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahLydia/pseuds/HannahLydia
Summary: Elizabeth struggled in the chair, grunting noisily, the leather creaking as she fought her bonds.“This is awaste of time-!” She yelled after him as Comstock began his retreat. "Don’t you understand that,Prophet?! Can’t youseethat? I’m never going to be the daughter that you want me to be! As long as there’sbreathin my body, I willnevergive you the monster you want of me!”AKA: Elizabeth is trapped in Comstock House and awaiting Booker's rescue. Unfortunately for the both of them, Booker's rescue mission is not about to go to plan.





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bookerbeth Week '18, for the 'Torture' prompt. Set in a canon-divergent/alternate-ending AU that makes up part of a larger project I would like to work on.

> **_“BOO-KER. DE-WITT,”_ **

_Zzzp **-!!**_

The wires that snaked across the floor of the auditorium carried the charge home to its destination.   
Elizabeth convulsed in the chair she had been forcibly strapped into. She writhed, arms straining against the bonds as the electricity pumped through her body - at the mercy of whichever scientist had his hand on the lever.   
As she spasmed, she pulled a muscle in her neck and felt the cramp like a burn after the shock had passed. Her ears were ringing, and the inner canals were becoming lined with traces of blood.  

Today was a lesson in a long line of lessons. It hammered home that she had been right to ask Booker to kill her rather than let them take her back. She told herself for the hundredth time that she should have simply dashed in front of Songbird’s talons and taken the blow for Booker rather than allow herself to be taken hostage.   
Now they were _both_ as good as dead. 

Comstock referred to this particular room as her ‘schoolhouse’. It smelt stale and old, not at all like her damp cell or the clinical and metallic odour of the main lab. The brocade wallpaper was already beginning to lose colour - cracked and peeling in places where they had mounted the switches and circuit breakers to the walls. Her chair had been pulled to the centre of the main aisle in what served as a small auditorium, cables spilling over the floor like tendrils snaking out in all directions. She could see them at the edges of her vision, barely, but what occupied most of her gaze was the large screen that took up most of the wall opposite her, and the red velvet drapes that framed it.  
As with the rest of Columbia, luxury was ever-present in the face of evil. 

The projected film was not so much a ‘film’ as it was a series of images and words - a slideshow she was becoming intimately acquainted with. Every now and then a recorded sequence would appear, heavy with static as if she were looking at one of her tears. Songbird would be soaring through the air - followed soon by the word ‘PROPHET’ flashing, transient, across the screen in bold white letters, before the flag of Columbia would begin whipping in the wind. Now there was only ‘FATHER’, followed by an image of Comstock.   
Elizabeth braced herself. She knew what was coming next.

Within seconds an image of the Eiffel Tower appeared. Her heart lifted at the proverbial carrot-on-a-stick, but it subsequently began to ache, preparing for the swift punishment that would inevitably follow her misplaced hope. _The firm hand of discipline.  
_ A few moments later, a disjointed voice sounded out of the speakers. Female, slow and patronising. Elizabeth had heard it enough times now that she had even begun registering it as the voice of her not-mother, Lady Comstock, even though that in itself was impossible. 

> **_“PA-RIS,”_ **

_Zzzp!!_

The shock that swiftly followed was not as sharp as the shock they always applied for ‘Booker’, but it was nevertheless strong enough to force a tear to spill down her cheek. She could taste it at her lips, but was too numb to trace it with her tongue.

They had strapped her in so that she couldn’t look away from the screen, of course. She watched as the word ‘FALSE’ shouted at her, followed by a grisly illustration of a dying lamb, followed by ‘SHEPHERD’.  
She rode out the next wave of electricity, gritting her teeth to stop herself from yelling, or accidentally biting down on her tongue should she cry out as a second shock arrested her. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her bleed or hearing her scream, not if she could help it.  

The high-pitched ringing in her ears was constant now, and almost loud enough to drown out all-else. Her chest heaved with each breath, and every fibre of her being cried out in agony. 

 _Don’t pay attention to **any** of this, Elizabeth,_ she told herself as sternly as she could, even as she struggled through waves of immense pain. _This isn’t going to work… you_ **know** _it isn’t. This is– This is child’s play._  
After all, she would die if she had to. 

If this was Comstock’s plan - to subject her to home movies and his funhouse of an asylum - then his ego truly knew no bounds. Did he really think he could bend her will with indoctrination and subliminal messaging? That she would get down on her knees for him after a few sessions of electroshock therapy? It wouldn’t _work_  - she’d rather die than live out the life he wanted for her. The path he had chosen wouldn’t be a ‘life’ - it would be an existence, and a pitiless one at that. He could show her mock-ups of Booker’s face as much as he wanted, and shock her or induce her to be sick at its image, but it wasn’t really _him_. Comstock’s interpretation of Booker DeWitt was not her own. He still existed in her mind as a Way Out. He was out there somewhere - she had to believe that. Booker was just lying low or rallying back-up - perhaps even recruiting the Vox Populi who, in one world, saw him as their champion and martyr. He would come back for her, Elizabeth knew it intrinsically to be true.

Comstock was on the screen once more now, along with her ‘mother’ who was clutching her as a swaddled baby and looking sourer for it. Both of them looked as though they could barely stomach each other’s presence.

 _Flash_.

> **_“E-LIZ-A-BETH,”_ **

_Flash_.

Reflexively, Elizabeth squeezed the arms of the chair, if only to remind herself she had hands at all. She tried to draw herself away from the messages transitioning across the screen and attempted to put herself into a trance - staring dead-ahead without truly seeing anything at all. Soon ‘nothing at all’ became a vision as if from a dream - of her and Booker standing at the podium that had been removed from the stage before her, re-educating citizens of Columbia on the true nature of their beloved ‘Prophet’.    
A campaign in lieu of victory.   
For a brief moment she forgot herself, closing her eyes. Rule one: never close your eyes.

_**ZZP!!** _

This time she _did_ let out a scream, and her head jerked despite the tight leather band across her forehead. She cried out so loud that the sound reverberated, trailing off into an angry yell that was rage-filled enough to produce a disembodied voice over the speaker system mounted on the wall.  
“F-Father Comstock, sir… I don’t believe this method is worki– _aah_!” 

The projector died with a rattling sound.

Heaving for breath and collapsing back into the chair,, Elizabeth had time to wonder whether the interruption of the unseen scientist - not to mention the termination of the session - meant that she was being liberated.  
She didn’t have the strength to raise her head, nor register that her heart was filling with hope.   
_B-Booker…?_ She wondered desperately. Her eyes were stinging. The thought that he could be coming to rescue her was too much to bear.   
Then- the sound of patient, leisurely footsteps dashed all of her hopes. A rescue mission wasn’t paced at that speed - whoever was coming was doing so to gloat. 

The footsteps turned from the connecting corridor into the room behind her, and Elizabeth shuddered as they began to steadily approach her high-backed chair. She already knew who it was before he stepped in front of her. Though her face was angled to the floor, she recognised him even without glancing up. _Comstock_. Despite the exhaustion and agony, Elizabeth found herself once again clenching her teeth, breathing heavily through her nose. She hadn’t planned on fully looking up, not at first, but the urge to raise her chin in defiance proved too strong. She caught his eye, and held it. He appeared stern but calm, assessing her with his cold, blue eyes.

“Child…” He said pityingly, shaking his head in a subtle gesture. He reached out a hand towards her and it took all of Elizabeth’s might to retain a stern expression. She flinched as his finger swept away the stray tear upon her cheek, skin crawling at the brief contact. “My, look what you’ve done to yourself. Why do you fight me on this? I’m not the enemy here,” His tone was utterly charming and jovial, with a chuckle at the very idea he was ‘the enemy’. It was the same voice he used the enchant the Columbian masses, all self-important charisma. It wouldn’t work on her.

Elizabeth hocked up a ball of spittle and blood and projected it in his direction. It hit him full in the face, much to her immense satisfaction. The instant it struck him, however, his demeanour notably changed. Comstock’s face hardened into something that was almost predatory. It reminded her, awfully, of Booker when he was ready to kill.   
Eyes clamping shut, Comstock wiped at the spit in an attempt to rid himself of it. When he drew back his hand and slapped her it was hard enough to leave the imprint of his palm upon it in an ugly red stain.

“The False Shepherd isn’t coming for you,” He hissed, withdrawing a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe before dabbing angrily at his face with it. “That man cares for nothing except himself. Look what happened, Elizabeth _._ He saw his window and he took it. That’s what kind of devil he is, child. He cares nothing for you,” 

The strike had hurt, but not nearly as much as his words. 

_‘He saw his window and he took it.’_

She didn’t want to believe that. 

Elizabeth’s head was still turned aside from the force of the slap. She breathed in and out, the sound laboured, pent-up with rage and denial.   
“That’s a _lie_ ,” She snapped back, unbreakable. “You’re wrong about him. You– You don’t–”  
“– know him like you do?” Comstock finished for her, sensing the words on the tip of her tongue. Elizabeth wasn’t sure if he was about to laugh or strike her again. When she turned back to face him his eyes were ablaze.  
“You’re a _fool_ , child. I know DeWitt better than anyone,” He shook out the handkerchief in a snapping motion and then pocketed it, giving her a slow, long look-over from head to toe. Then, seemingly deciding on something, he turned as if to walk away.

Elizabeth struggled in the chair, grunting noisily, the leather creaking as she fought her bonds.  
“This is a _waste of time_ -!” She yelled after him as Comstock began his retreat. "Don’t you understand that, _Prophet_?! Can’t you _see_ that? I’m never going to be the daughter that you want me to be! As long as there’s breath in my body, I will _never_ give you the monster you want of me!”

Her words must have had an effect on him because she could hear him stop dead in his tracks. There was an uncomfortable silence, arduous in length, until finally she heard Comstock sniff contemplatively behind her. She knew better than to hope he would simply _agree_.   
After a few more minutes, he returned to her. She felt the chair vibrate from above as he rested a heavy hand on it. “… That may be, child. While you have hope at least. Mark my words when your hope dies, you and I will see eye to eye. You’ll accept me at last and do you know why that will come to pass?”

She desperately didn’t want to rise to the bait, or be reeled in by his annoyingly well-practised speeches, but Elizabeth felt her mouth working all the same. “ _Why_?” She asked, her voice throbbing unhappily.  
The chair creaked at each corner of the backrest - Comstock was holding onto it with both hands now.  
“Because, my child…” The subtle laugh had returned to his voice, all charm once again. “… you will realise that I have only been trying to keep you _safe_ and that - despite it all - I have been the one who’s always been there for you, and not _DeWitt_. I have provided for you, I have invested in your future, I will entrust to you everything that I own and I have a built a _life_ for you, Elizabeth. Can the same be said of the False Shepherd?” 

His ‘generosity’ was nauseating. Elizabeth felt her stomach turn, wishing she could lash out at him for it.  
_Don’t rise to it. Don’t answer him, just– just let him walk away._ But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

“Did you ever consider what _I_ might have wanted?!” She cried out suddenly, clutching hold of the arm rests so hard that yellow streaks of effort lined her knuckles. “I don’t want a life ‘built’ for me, I wanted to build it _with_ someone! Booker was– Booker was going to give me that!”

She thought she heard Comstock take a sharp intake of breath. 

What was she trying to accomplish here? There was no point reaching out to him - it was like screaming at an immovable mountain and triggering an avalanche.  
A dreadful, repressive silence passed between them. Then, in a voice that sent a cold chill down Elizabeth’s aching spine, Comstock uttered a single word.   
“‘ _With_ ’?” His tone was venom, dripping with both incredulity and disdain. It caused Elizabeth’s heart to miss a beat in terror. 

Comstock removed his hands from the backrest of the chair, receding from her presence. He took one step, then two, then stopped. Elizabeth didn’t see the low angle of his brows, nor the hard frown on his face. Most importantly, she didn’t see him nod to the two-way glass behind her. 

The electric shock that followed and sparked through her body was the most powerful of them all, inducing her to open her mouth to scream.  
Elizabeth blacked out seconds later.

 

* * *

 

She’d been transferred to her cell. When Elizabeth came to, there wasn’t a single part of her body that didn’t ache. Just as with any prison, the lock-up was designed for criminals or traitors. In Comstock’s eye she had been the latter ever since she had stepped off of Monument Island with the False Shepherd. He had long since done away with providing her luxury and all the comforts of home. She was now lying on a hard cot, an arm hanging like a deadweight off the edge. The world felt foggy and suspended and she was moving through it slowly, incrementally. Her stomach was cramping and her neck was stiff, and it took her a long while to have the strength to sit up.

The lone pillow on her cot was peppered with small blossoms of blood. Whoever had brought her in had dumped her unceremoniously and hadn’t bothered to put any kind of sheet over her. Elizabeth supposed she should be grateful they hadn’t undressed her - it would only be a matter of time before her guards lost reverence for her and took advantage.

At that moment the hatch in the heavy steel door opened, large enough to reveal the clean-shaven, pocked face of a guard. The smell of cooked meat wafted in, and Elizabeth’s stomach jerked hungrily. She couldn’t see the meal, but she knew it was there. A peace offering from Comstock? An apology for knocking her out?

“Do you accept our Lord and Prophet, Father Comstock?” The voice on the other side of the door barked.

 _… What?_  
Elizabeth stared at him naively, gripping onto the lone, thin sheet beneath her.   
Was this another test? The rumbling sound from her stomach would have been comedic had it not been a reminder of how little she had eaten in the past twenty-four hours.

Comstock’s game was sickening. She had her morals - she didn’t intend to suck up to her ‘father’ just to get a meal.   
_You’d rather die. Remember?_  

“Never,” She finally answered the guard, setting her jaw. She even tried The Look - one she had picked up from Booker. It embodied martyrdom - equal parts arrogant, concrete and annoyingly heroic. She flashed it at the guard with conviction.  
The man scowled back at her and closed the eye-height hatch with a snap.

As soon as she was alone again, wild panic overcame Elizabeth. She clutched her convulsing stomach, imagining the man walking away with the meal in-hand. Roast beef? Steak? Casserole? What did it matter? It was gone.    
Her face screwed up in despair, tears welling as she began to approach her limit. It was the first she had realised how close they were to breaking her. She hoped they didn’t know _how_ close. She hoped, too, that now she was aware of it she could reassess and move the goalposts.

The sound of squeaking hinges interrupted her tears. When Elizabeth looked down, she saw that the hatch at the foot of the door had popped open and a tray was being roughly slid inside. A bowl sat atop it and it rocked precariously upon entry, partially spilling its contents onto the tray. It didn’t matter, Elizabeth lunged towards it all the same.   
This was not the meal she had smelt - it had been exchanged for peasant’s rations of watered down soup and a crust of bread. Still, it was food. She devoured the small meal, wondering if it would be enough to sustain her throughout her unjust punishment at the hands of Comstock.  
It was at that exact moment that the shrill alarm began to sound throughout the building.

Elizabeth raised her head. She had become so accustomed to its cry during her few escape attempts and those of Vox Populi ringleaders that she didn’t think to pay attention to this one in particular. It was just another part of the loathsome Comstock House ambience - along with all the murmurs from doctors who asked no questions and the occasional booms from Vox volleys fired from doomed airships. She had no way of knowing that this alarm was different - not until she heard running. Running… and frantic panting up and down her corridor.

“- _What’s going on_?!”  
“The Lamb! Hurry! We need to relocate her! Comstock wants her brought to him. _Now_!”

Elizabeth stood up immediately, her attention piqued by the urgency. Her chest began to pound with the beating of her heart. 

“– We’d need more time for that!” Her guard objected, notably shocked.   
“There _is_ no time. More men are heading this way. Detain her! We’re moving out,”

She heard the rattle of a key in the lock of her cell door - of many keys, as her jailer panicked and struggled to find the right one.  
They were always supposed to drug her for transport… or bring out the cuffs. Comstock had commissioned steel-forged ‘mittens’ that encased her hands, chain-linked together and in a ‘T’ shape formation so that she could be led like a disobedient dog. The cuffs prevented her from opening tears. The fact that they were doing neither of these things meant that this was a real emergency. Something was happening, something unplanned that they had to spirit her away from.  
A riot?  
A rescue?  
_Booker?_

Elizabeth’s eyes widened at the thought. If there was even the slightest chance that Booker had breeched Comstock House then she couldn’t let them relocate her away from him.  
She withdrew silently, careful with the placement of her heeled feet as she tucked herself into the corner behind the door. If she was lucky, they would be too frantic to check properly, or she could overpower them in the event that she got the upper-hand. Maybe they would presume her cell was empty - that she’d already opened a tear out of there. She wondered how many of the orderlies knew she was daily and manually being drained and battered beyond reason, leaving her far too weak to get out. 

What if they panicked and left her cell door ajar? That way she could make her escape and find her liberator before they did.  
_If it isn’t a Vox assault, at least._  

The lock finally clicked and the door swung open part-way. A heavy footstep thudded over the threshold, and then the soldier kicked aside the tray - Elizabeth heard it clatter as it slid across the floor and abruptly hit the wall.   
“She’s in there. I just fed her myself,” Her guard said amidst heavy panting; she could see him in her mind’s eye pointing a shaky finger.   
“You sure about that?” 

She clamped her mouth shut, crouching as best she could in the small space afforded behind the door.  
_Just leave_ , she willed desperately, her heart having risen into her throat. _Please. Just– **leave!**_

Miraculously, the door began to close.  
Elizabeth felt a wave of relief that vanished as soon as it had come. When the door slammed back open to it’s fullest extent, it smacked her out cold into a crumpled heap in the corner.

 

* * *

 

She dipped in and out of consciousness. Elizabeth’s view of the world was no more than a slither above a somewhat-slipped blindfold.

“… - _hepherd_ …”  
“… - _alse– rd?_ ”  
“- _ere_?! Where did… Where did he see him?”  
“-c _oming_ ,”  
“– for the girl, you fool-!”  
“Christ…”  
“It— I-Is it really him?”

Her ears were ringing, just as they had been after she’d been electrocuted, but she nevertheless made out significant words as she came around, reaching out to her like a lifeline.

_Booker…!?_

She discovered that her hands were bound, as well as her feet. She was being carried on some kind of bed of taught fabric - either a stretcher or something makeshift. She wagered the latter, because when she stirred, strong hands instantly grabbed at her, shifting the balance of the fabric as if she had rolled within a hammock.  
“She’s awake,”  
“ _Shit_ ,”

She retched at the feeling of fabric scraping against her tongue. They had gagged her. Of  _course_ they had gagged her. Unable to scream, Elizabeth began thrashing as much as possible. With each attempt they only held her faster. She had no way of telling where she was exactly, but she knew that she was outside - the cool air whipped at her body and jostled the fabric sling beneath her. The noise was tumultuous out here - all running, yelling, the distant automated steam-whistle of a Patriot followed by it’s telltale war cry: “For Faith! For Fatherland! For _Family_!”    
It sounded like they were building up an army. An army… against one man.

 _He’s_ **coming**.  
F-For what?!   
For the **girl** , you fool!

Booker was due to face grim odds in the pursuit of her. Elizabeth forcefully reminded herself that he was capable of defeating them, and that she’d seen him overcome so much to date. In truth, it felt like the two of them could handle anything side by side. Them against the world.  
_But we’re **not** side by side.  
_ Her gut wrenched miserably, but it didn’t stop her from attempting to wriggle her hands free of her restraints. Something within Comstock House had been acting as a barrier to her power but out here it wasn’t as strong. If she could just free her hands, if she could just open a tear…

“SKREEEEEEEEEE-!”

 _S-Songbird?!_ Elizabeth flinched automatically, and turned her head in the direction of his screech. Sightless, she imagined him diving through the air, anticipating the colour of his eyes and wondering if it was a rallying cry or a warning for Booker’s benefit.

> _Songbird, Songbird, see him fly…_
> 
> _… _drop the children from the sky…_  
>  _

“Th-The bird-!” One of her detainee’s cried out.  
“Oh, come on, Jack. The bird knows we’re moving the girl. He’s our escort,”  
“He’s _watching_ us,” 'Jack’, to the right of Elizabeth’s head, sounded terrified. His teeth were subtly chattering.

> _When the young ones misbehave…_
> 
> … _escorts children to their grave…_

A pig-headed laugh sounded to Elizabeth’s lower left-hand side. “Thank the Founders the bird’s on _our_ side. Ain’t no man capable of surviving what we’ve got in store for that False Shepherd…”   
The statement didn’t sit well with her. Gritting her teeth, Elizabeth drew back her legs together and kicked with all her might. Her boots connected satisfactorily with flesh, and the man who had spoken howled, dropping his corner outright.

“Wittle!”  
“ _Christ_ …!”

The sling under Elizabeth gave way. She crashed to the floor, bashing her elbow on the unforgiving stone paving, the blindfold slipping enough for her to see she had driven the heels of her boots right into ‘Wittle’s’ crotch. The Founder soldier was cupping it and whining in a high-pitched tone.  
She didn’t have time to feel any triumph for her small victory - the next moment she was being dragged to her feet by the lapels of her mother’s blue velvet bolero.

The blindfold was ripped entirely from her face, the gag dragged from her mouth in such a way that she nearly threw up as it raked across her tongue. The soldier she was now face-to-face with was bristling with rage, even though he had not been the one she had kicked. A vein stood out on his forehead and his neck, his cold eyes regarding her with hostility.  
“You little whore!” He snapped, shaking her so that her head rocked. “You want so badly to leave Eden?! You want that devil more than you want your own salvation?! Just why are we fighting for you anyway?!”

Elizabeth’s teeth rattled as he shook her harder still, spraying spittle into her face as he did so. 

“The bird…!” Someone yelled, but the man that had rounded on Elizabeth wasn’t listening. A dark shadow fell upon the ground, extinguishing the afternoon sunlight. 

Songbird was screaming.

The one who had hold of Elizabeth tugged at her bolero so hard that a seam ripped, pulling her up to his full height. “Comstock’s getting tired of your disobedience, princess. I’d be careful if I were you,”

“ _The bird!”_ Jack said again. 

They all looked up at the last possible moment. They tried to scatter, but it was too late. Songbird’s speed was break-neck. His cry was piercing as he descended those final feet and snatched the four men away from Elizabeth - two in each hand - knocking her onto her back once more.   
Songbird’s red gaze haloed the world. The men’s cries for mercy rang in her ears but Elizabeth was too mad, too bitter, to call him off. Comstock wasn’t here to protect his lackeys, and they hadn’t had the wisdom to treat her with respect. Songbird had simply seen a threat and had addressed it as came naturally to him. 

He wasn’t careful with the placement of his talons as he had always been with her, one of the men had already been gored as a result and was staring at Elizabeth with pinprick pupils. His great wings beating hard enough to create a backdraft of wind, Songbird took to the air once more.

> _Never back-talk… never lie…_
> 
> _… or he’ll drop you from the sky!_

Elizabeth reeled, wheezing and staring up at the heavens as she lay there on the ground. She watched as Songbird soared into the clouds and then dropped the men from a great height. They seemed to fall forever.

No other soldiers attempted to secure her, Songbird was already coming back. He would take over - his gaze already amber, now switching to an appraising green.  
Elizabeth didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Here he was, taking her far from Booker again, retaining a toxic hold on her. She closed her eyes as his sharp talon moved with delicacy to slice the ropes binding her legs but not - she noticed - the binds tying her hands.  
The bird gathered her up in his palm, cooing softly, checking her over, before launching into the air once more. 

They were circling the Hand of the Prophet within mere minutes.

 

* * *

 

Comstock House was fortified and guarded, but not nearly in the way Booker had expected.

 _They’ve moved her,_ he began to realise with dawning horror as he moved from corridor to corridor, room to room. Men came in waves to stop him, and he barely got the jump on any of them. They’d known he was coming - he must have been spotted on the bridge.

How much time had passed since Songbird had taken Elizabeth away from him and left him sprawled and winded on the floor of the loft space he’d thrown him into? Days? Weeks? _Months?  
_ No matter how long he’d been away, it wouldn’t stop him from getting to her. The fire that had been ignited in him had only been stoked further. Since he’d last seen her he’d become privy to a future that absolutely _must_ _not_ come to pass, but one that might if he failed.

_(I was **coming**.)  
_ _(Songbird will try and stop you. He might always succeed…)_

Pacing the corridor of a row of cell doors, Booker relived the memory of the elderly Elizabeth he had recently encountered. She’d been Comstock’s true heir and daughter - raining fire on New York and living to regret it.   
She’d given him a piece of advise, wanting to help but uncertain of how much she should interfere. In his pocket was the card she had given him, with the instruction that it was intended for Elizabeth, and then she had sent him back to where he had started. He’d reappeared in the whipping wind staring at the facade of Comstock House, except the light had been pale and the weather cooler than it had been when he’d left. It was not the comfort of summer in July, but felt like late Fall, with a chill encroaching in the air.

Had she misjudged the time he’d come from? And if so, how had Elizabeth been faring in that time?

_Elizabeth…._

Booker called her name frantically down this particular corridor, banging open any cell doors that were ajar, sliding the hatches on others to look inside. No girl. No nothing.

“Damn it…!”

He stepped over the corpse of the guard he had recently shot and made head way to go further before backtracking and frisking the body for coins, ammo and any key he might have on him. It was when he was crouched down that he heard it, even over the piercing klaxon that had been sounding since he’d first busted his way in. Running, heavy footsteps, militarised and in some kind of formation. Booker withdrew his pistol, his free hand hovering over the dead man’s carbine. They wouldn’t be expecting him to be crouched down - even prone as he was he had an advantage. The first rain of bullets would simply go sailing over his head. 

 _Aim for their legs, and take them out from under ‘em_ … Booker thought with calculated certainty, his lip twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

Interrupting his plan of attack, however, was a hidden speaker on the wall that let out a wail of static. Then, bold as brass: “Mr DeWitt… how nice of you to stop by,”

_Comstock._

Booker temporarily forgot himself. His head snapped up in search of the speaker, and shouted at it as if Comstock were in the room. “Where’s the girl?!” He yelled at the heights of the nearest wall, to wherever the sound was coming from. “ _Comstock_?! If you’ve hurt her, I swear I’ll-!”

“You’ll _what_ , DeWitt?”

The distraction had been brief, but long enough. Now soldiers were coming into view, guns trained on him, setting up in a triangular formation. What surprised Booker was that they were not immediately firing, not like any of the others that had taken pop shots at him the instant they’d clapped sight on him. Had Comstock warned them to stand down long enough to discuss terms? _Why_? That wasn’t his style, and he seemed to know him to some degree because he had never offered Booker surrender. It was like he knew he wouldn’t take it. Come to think of it, he’d never offered him a buy-out either… 

If he knew him to be motivated by self-gain, why hadn’t he tried that in the first instance?  
_Because it’s about more than the debt now. He knew that before you did._

Booker straightened slowly, not liking the tension in the air of this bizarre stand-off.  _Shoot, damn it. Shoot first or you won’t get to draw at all, remember?_  
His finger squeezed the trigger of his pistol slightly, aiming at the lead Founder soldier ahead of him. The man had his hand up in a hold-your-fire gesture, preventing his men from taking action. Whilst it wasn’t against Booker’s morals to fire at the enemy when they were standing down, he found he was held in place for some reason, going against everything he believed and all his better judgement.  
_Shit…_

“The thing is, DeWitt, my child is proving to be stubborn,”  
_She’s **not** ‘your’ child… _ Booker thought with grit teeth. Comstock’s use of the phrase was somehow _offensive._ It was as if he were claiming an ownership that Booker had right to, which was absurd! He saw Elizabeth as anything _but_ a child, let alone his. That would be grossly inappropriate given–   
– _given what?_

In the absence of a response, Comstock was continuing on.   
“I’m afraid to say that Elizabeth doesn’t share my vision, and I only have _you_ to thank for that. A wall to her destiny, just as I predicted,”

Hurried footsteps were sounding _behind_ him now. A pincer movement. Booker had stopped too long, and now they were going to ambush him from both sides. They must have dropped off reinforcements to run through the rat-run of a building he had just cleared.   

 _Shit… **Shit** …!   
_He was far too distracted now to pay true attention to Comstock, attuning all his focus on the threats he was about to face both front and back.

“Elizabeth needs to be punished… and _you_ , well. I need to make an example of you,”

A bullet fired from behind him, just glancing Booker’s shoulder. It was a near-miss, imbedding into the cell door beside him.  
Booker wheeled around automatically, gun raised, taking out the soldier who had fired.

In the wake of the bullet, the world shifted. Everything turned foggy and green. 

Suddenly unable to feel the weapon in his hand, Booker listed to one side, struggling to see through the cloud of miasma that now obscured his vision. A breath - sultry and drawn out - sounded in his ear. He imagined it was Elizabeth, her hands on his shoulders, pressing her petite frame into his back, the curves of her breasts swelling out of the corset and prominent upon his spine. He felt her hand on his, taking the gun, dropping it to the floor.

Booker didn’t question it, despite the way he stared, shell-shocked, dead ahead. Frozen in place.

> _“With just a whisper…”_

_‘… Booker…’_

> _“… they’re **all** ears.”_

Elizabeth’s whisper of his name became hundreds of whispers, though he swore he could still hear the telltale thrum in her throat of yet another seductive breath. The fine hairs on his arms stood on end.

“I want him alive,” A faraway voice echoed. Booker could no longer recognise the speaker. They were muffled, distant. It didn’t matter anymore.

The air glistened with wisps of lime-coloured smoke and white orbs of light, and all the while Elizabeth was holding him. Both of her hands were upon his, but when he looked he couldln’t see them there. He felt and _knew_ she was moving them, gently working them behind his back as if manipulating him like a puppet, but even to his own eyes they looked as if they were his own mechanical actions.  
Like he was–  
_– what?_

_‘Booker…’_

He realised, distantly, that he had an erection, pressing hard against the seam of his pants.

_Elizabeth?_

He was getting to his knees now. Was she willing him to do this for her, to prove his worth?

_‘I’m waiting for you, Booker…’  
_ _I’m **coming**._

He imagined she was standing in front of him now, a shifting spirit made out of the strange fog, all willowy curves and sinewy movements. Her ghostly impression blocked the soldiers from view somehow - in fact it seemed the corridor was now empty except for the two of them. If only that was the case. Someone was roughly grabbing his hands behind him, entrapping them with cold, biting metal. All the while Booker continued staring up at the sulphuric shadow of Elizabeth, beholding her as someone might behold an idol. His lips twitched, his own green eyes now a luminous colour as if glowing with their own light.

“Didn’t think Possession would work so well on ‘im," A distant voice said. "What do you think he’s staring at?”  
"... Sin,”


End file.
